All Things Devours
by PwnedByPineapple
Summary: There is only one thing that the New Architect fears.


**Title:** All Things Devours  
><strong>Summary:<strong> There is only one thing that the New Architect fears.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This fic goes unforgivably far beyond headcanon, into 'shit that I'm just making up for fun.' But even when I was little, I thought that, with the Days and the Dawns and the Noons and the Dusks and such, it would have been neat to see a proper personification of Time itself.

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><p><em>This thing all things devours:<br>Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;  
>Gnaws iron, bites steel;<br>Grinds hard stones to meal;  
>Slays king, ruins town,<br>And beats high mountain down._

- The Hobbit, J. R. R. Tolkien

* * *

><p>Sometimes, the New Architect wanders.<p>

He knows every region of the universe as intimately as if it as a childhood home, but knowing is not the same as experiencing, and so much of it is still new to him. Sometimes, he wanders with Suzy and Fred, and their expeditions are always among solid, planetary places – places that are tangible and suited for a superficially mortal form. But sometimes, he wanders alone. The vast reaches of space are no obstacle for him, and he walks among nebulae as easily as he walks the House.

The vacuum of space is completely silent and airless, and yet Art can still feel the essence of the universe pulsing around him and within him. Space's stillness is an illusion to one such as him – Nothing's presence is always there, in his mind and his own essence, and even when he shuts down most of the extended senses he now possesses, he can always feel it lurking. But he has completely mastery over it, and for the most part, he can pretend that the universe isn't continually pressing in on him and that its continuous background noise isn't always there within him.

The constant, unyielding presence of the universe isn't what bothers him. It isn't what he's truly running from when he walks the expanses of space.

This time, he explores an spiral galaxy devoid of life on any of its planets. Life will exist there one day, but not in this present time, and Art takes the time to get to know each star for now. But his mind is not focused on them, even as he inspects each one. His thoughts are turned inward, so much that he is hardly aware of his own actions, and he does not sense the entity approach him... if "approach" is even the right word.

All he knows, as he is pulled violently from his own thoughts by sudden awareness, is that a _presence_ descends on him. One moment, he is alone. The next, he is aware of _it_, though he cannot see or sense it through normal means. It's just _there_, all around him and yet nowhere near him, and he doesn't know what it is or how he is aware of it.

Only that should be impossible, because it is his job to know of everything in the universe.

_Hello, little one._

Sound is not possible here, but the voice does not speak through sound. It reverberates through Art's very _being_, rippling through the Nothing swirling in his consciousness at a microcosmic level – and, at the same time, it tears through the essence of everything around him, massive and macrocosmic in nature. It comes from _outside_ of Art's knowledge and mind – he does not recognize it, cannot place its origin, and knows only that it comes from whatever entity lurks near him, unseen.

Art shudders instinctively and, for a brief moment, feels an old but familiar sensation of tightening lungs. It is not physical and not even real, but it is unpleasant, and he bristles. "Little one?" he asks, every part of him tense.

_Everything is little compared to me. Even you._ The voice doesn't speak in any language, but language is nonetheless what Art hears. There is nothing identifiable about it – no gender, no timbre – and yet Art gets the impression of patronizing amusement. It does not endear the voice to him at all.

"What are you?" he demands.

_I am everything. And I am nothing. Although, not what you call Nothing. No, I am much more than that._ Once again, the voice, though lacking anything distinctive, carries a hint of condescension – the claim isn't so much boastful as it is specifically designed to irritate him.

Art scowls. "I am not in the mood for riddles." He still can't see the entity. Whatever it is, it does not show up under any form of light or _any_ of his senses. He wouldn't even believe it had an existence at all, if it wasn't for the overwhelming sensation of its sheer presence on _all_ levels of reality. There and yet not there. It is completely unknown to him, and he has grown so unused to the feeling of not knowing that it unnerves him. But he doesn't get the sense that the voice's origin is a threat, and so he does not respond as he would to aggression. He merely remains where he is, uselessly scanning the blackness around him.

_That wasn't a riddle,_ the voice says. _That was a fairly straightforward definition. Come now – you can't possibly enjoy having all knowledge handed to you. You were mortal once, were you not?_

Neither is Art used to things being able to so effortlessly get under his skin anymore, and yet this voice manages it with ease. "How do you know that?" he asks, his scowl deepening.

_Like I said... I am everything. To be more specific, I am what enables everything to exist. But I do not exist in a way that anyone, even you, can easily understand. So, in a way, I am nothing at all._

Art's automatic thought is of Nothing, but the voice had already denied it – and besides, Nothing is not difficult to understand. And the voice seems to come _through_ the Nothing that brushes up against Art's consciousness, as if using it as a medium. Something beyond Nothing, then – but what is beyond the fabric of the universe itself?

He does not want to guess – he doesn't care about being wrong, but he does not want to give this entity the satisfaction of even more condescension if he _is_ wrong. Perhaps the entity senses this, because the voice produces something that resembles a laugh. On the surface, it isn't anything like what Art knows as a laugh, but it carries with it the same kind of amusement.

_Your fear is very loud, you know,_ the voice says, as if making casual conversation. _It called to me._

And Art _knows_. It had crossed his mind before, but the last statement confirms it for him. There is no breath in space, but it is knocked out of him nonetheless, and he has to take a moment to regain composure. "You're Time," he says quietly, with conviction. He has already forgotten what it had felt like for his heart to pound... but he remembers now.

_Very good,_ says the voice – Time. _The other one chose relatively well, then._

"The Old Architect?"

_I suppose. It's hard to keep track of such tiny things as you all._

Art does not speak for several moments. He doesn't even know where to begin, because despite the clarification of the voice's identity, he is no closer to understanding anything. He doesn't doubt it – he knows, intrinsically, that this voice is not capable of lying, and with the clarification comes an overwhelming sense of certainty that he has learned to trust – but he doesn't comprehend it, either. "What are you?" he asks again, finally.

_That, I'm afraid, is not up for discussion, although I commend you for repeating that question._ It sounds surprisingly sincere.

Its sincerity has the exact same effect as its more patronizing tone – Art feels a flicker of irritation again, overcoming his shock. "Then what do you want?" he demands. "You said I called to you."

Time laughs its not-laugh again, mocking. _This universe is yours,_ it says. _You think your fear is your own? You come out here to brood and bottle things up, but you project instead – unconsciously, I suppose. Everything you do and feel has a ripple effect, Architect. How could I not sense it when half this galaxy shakes with it? You're just lucky that there's no life nearby. You'd bend it all out of shape._

Art has not felt this _mortal_ since mortality was lost to him. Time's words once again get under his skin, and he clenches a fist, glaring at something he can't even see. He'd known that his emotions could sometimes manifest physically, rare as it was, but he hadn't known that the extent could summon Time itself – whatever the hell it was.

"What do you want?" he asks again, deliberately calm.

_Ah, you're angry. That's good. Anger is stronger than fear. But both make you rigid. Best watch out for that._ Time sounds maddeningly light-hearted, as if they're talking of nothing more than the weather.

"Keep dodging around the subject, and you will see anger," Art says.

_You sound like the other one. She was quite a force. I daresay you __**could**__ stand up to me for a little while. But there's nothing and no one who can do that for long._

All of Art's anger vanishes in an instant, and he doesn't respond. He has not felt this small in a long time, either.

_Hmm,_ says Time. _And that's what you fear, isn't it?_

Art scowls again. "Did you just come to mock me?"

_I almost ignored you, actually. Until I realized that you __**weren't**__ the other one. Like I said, it's hard to keep track. I suppose I was curious. About you._

A hollow laugh escapes Art. "And?"

There is nothing to see, and yet he has the impression that Time is looking at him very closely. _You fear me,_ it says. _You fear becoming like the other one. You fear that I will turn you into a creature of destruction, a creature who would twist and bend and break others according to your will._

"And will you?" The question is posed so quietly that Art might as well have not even said it, but Time hears him nonetheless.

The "laugh" comes again. _That, little one, is entirely up to you._

Art lets out an explosive, frustrated sigh. "I knew you would say that," he says. "You're Time. Are you really not capable of coming up with a more original answer?"

_About as capable as you are of manipulating me,_ Time says, sounding well and truly amused now. _I cannot tell you anything else. I act according to my nature, and you must act and adapt according to yours. Do you not trust yours?_

"No," Art says flatly. He has never confronted this thought directly before, always dodging around it and approaching it cautiously, and though engaging with it feels like indulging in poison and makes his stomach twist unpleasantly, it also feels... good. Like he is purging something.

_That is strange. Your nature is uncommon._

"So was the Old Architect's," Art points out bitterly. "Look what happened there."

_I said you sounded like her. I never said you resembled her beyond that. What, do you think her choosing of you was entirely random?_

"Well... yes," Art says, and he frowns. He'd wondered, sometimes, but he'd never truly considered it in any context other than his usefulness to the Will's plan. "I was... convenient."

_You are as remarkably stupid as you are remarkable, I see. A truly fascinating combination._

Art sighs again, more contained this time. The implications of Time's words light a spark of hope, but it's all so _vague_. "You haven't really given me an answer about anything," he says accusingly.

_Of course not. That isn't what I came here to do. I just wanted a look. I don't have time to waste on your petty concerns._

"You _are_ Time," Art growls around gritted teeth. Some part of him knows that it's probably just in Time's nature to be contrary and thoroughly annoying, but _still_.

_Exactly. I have responsibilities, just as you do, which I am neglecting on your behalf at the moment._

An entirely different train of thought strikes Art suddenly, and he speaks up before Time can continue. He knows that he won't get anything else out of the other subject, though every part of him yearns to push it. "What responsibilities?" he asks. "I know every _inch_ of this universe, and I didn't even know you existed. _Where_ do you exist? What else is there that I don't know about?"

He gets the impression that Time is grinning broadly at him. _Ah, little one, did you really think that I would answer those questions?_

"No," Art sighs. "I didn't. A different question, then?"

_One more._

"Is this real?"

Time laughs delightedly. _An excellent question. I told you your nature was uncommon. And once again, the answer depends on __**you**__, Architect. You are the one who defines this particular universe. It bends for you. Do you think that gods are capable of madness?_

And with that, the presence vanishes as if it had never been there in the first place, leaving cold, empty space in its wake. Art is – once more, for all intents and purposes – alone.

_'_You sound like the other one. She was quite a force. I daresay you __**could**__ stand up to me for a little while. But there's nothing and no one who can do that for long._'_

Art begins to laugh - not a laugh of mirth, but one that seems to expel the poison the conversation had begun purging. It's a grim laugh, but it lightens him considerably, and he shakes his head when he is finally able to stop, looking around at the universe spread out before him. "Just like a riptide, then?" he murmurs. He knows he will receive no answer, no certainty, but for now, it doesn't matter. Certainty is something that doesn't yield easily, and perhaps... that _isn't_ what he needs.

* * *

><p>Suzy has just finished carefully replacing the record in its proper place when she turns and receives a shock. Art is standing a few feet away from her, having no doubt arrived there through the Improbable Stair. Suzy jumps, clutching at her chest – perhaps a bit more dramatically than necessary. "<em>Damn<em> it, Art! How many times have I told ya to stop doin' that!"

"Sorry," says Art, not sounding apologetic at all. There's a small, amused smile on his face. "I forget."

"Sure ya do," Suzy mutters, eyeing him. There's something... different in his demeanor. She can't quite place what it is, but... it's not a bad thing. In fact, it seems to be something eminently good, and it's almost infectious. Suzy smiles brightly. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Me 'n Fred, we found this Earth festival happening roundabouts your time – looks amazing, there's even a lights show – and we was wondering if you'd like to go. You know, to, eh... make up for the last debacle." She scratches her nose awkwardly.

Art had indeed lost his smile at the mention of a festival, eyeing her suspiciously. (Ever since the problem of the House's negative influence on the Secondary Realms had been mostly fixed, Fred and Suzy had developed an unintentional habit of causing small mayhem there, and no one had forgotten the last debacle). But his face clears with the rest of the statement. "Why not?" he says.

"Excellent," Suzy says, pleased, and she looks at Art curiously. "... You alright?" Not that he seems off. Just... different.

"Never better," Art says evasively, and Suzy knows that there's no use in trying to pry it out of him. If he wants to talk about it, he will on his own time. He offers her a hand. "Where is Fred?"

Suzy takes his hand. The Stair is much, much easier to use now, at least with Art – it appears wherever he wills, and Suzy watches the shining first step form in front of her, as soon as her hand touches Art's. "He's just dropping somethin' off with Doc," she says. "I told 'im we'd pick 'im up."

"Lead the way," Art says, sweeping his arm in an indication for her to go first, and Suzy's grin matches his before she jumps onto the Stair with him.


End file.
